Going Home
by Sansele
Summary: The scarf of the Kuchiki family has always belonged to the heir, as a sign of his nobility and power. But how exactly does Kuchiki Byakuya feel about it? A companion fic to JadOo's Remembering.


Disclaimer: Bleach belongs to Kubo Tite.

Going Home

The summer day was a hot one. People fanned themselves, trying to stay in the shade as much as possible. Flies buzzed around in the sweltering heat, tormenting the helpless people as they tried to brush them away. All over Soul Society, the sun was cursed and tempers were lost. The heat penetrated into the houses. It hovered in the shops, burrowed into the walls, crawled into the towers, sank into the sewers. There was nowhere to escape to.

Except for one household.

It stood in a most affluent part of Sereitei, imposing and strong. It was clear to the passers-by that nobility resided within, but those who hurried past its doors, shielding themselves from the sun, felt only a cold and sharp breeze coming from within. The walls were cold to the touch, repelling the heat. It seemed even the sun had hidden away from the Kuchiki household.

A young boy stood quietly in one of the ornate halls within the residence, clad in beige sackcloth. Two coffins rested on trestles in front of him. He knew well that his parents rested within; his father had died in his duty as a shinigami, and his mother had passed away from grief. The 10-year-old would have cried when he heard the news, but he didn't. It wasn't appropriate for a Kuchiki to show his feelings so openly. It was undignified. Not even death could bring tears to their eyes.

Kuchiki Byakuya would not be the first to undermine the family law. He had watched his father being carried in, the white sheet covering him drenched in blood. His father's blood. Deep inside, the boy wondered if he would die like that too.

A long white scarf lay folded neatly on his father's coffin. His grandfather pointed at it. That is the Ginpaku Kazahana no Uzuginu, he said. In eight years' time, you will wear that scarf, he told the boy next to him. It is a sign of nobility and great authority. You will become the clan leader. It is expected of you. I will teach you, then you will take charge of this family. You must.

Byakuya only remembered the mottled patterns of crimson that had covered it when it had been returned with his father. But he would never shirk the responsibility he had been given. He was a Kuchiki, and that was what mattered.

The night air was humid, choking, but Byakuya was unaffected by it. He sat at his desk, writing. His brow furrowed in concentration as he worked through the reports of the day, conscientiously detailing the missions the shinigami in his division had undertaken: the casualties, the successes, the deaths... the normal routine of a captain of the Gotei 13. Beside him rested another pile of signed sheets: a receipt to the baker; an agreement with the butcher for more meat. As the leader of the Kuchiki clan, it was his obligation to ensure that the everyday life of his family was kept as comfortable and convenient as possible. And to make sure that none of them stepped out of line. His younger sister had been talking to one of the commoners the other day, one with flaming red hair. He had reprimanded her; members of the Kuchiki family did not associate themselves with Rukongai riff-raff.

Just then, Byakuya heard the sound of the front door opening. Who could it be, coming back at this time of the night? He went to see, curious.

Rukia was in the courtyard, covered in blood, pale and withdrawn. A dead corpse standing before him. A coppery taste touched his tongue as he struggled not to cry out, not to release the horror that sprung up from deep within him. He saw his father. He saw Hisana. They stood before him in this one small person, looking out at him through her eyes, silent, but pleading, regretful, scared... The blood showed itself even against the black of the shinigami uniform.

He struggled to pull himself together, and watched as Rukia was led away by the servants. Even as they gently moved her in the direction of the baths, her head turned, her eyes following him. Her mouth opened, a helpless plea for forgiveness forming itself upon her lips, but she was bundled in a towel, and disappeared from his sight.

Byakuya began to hate the irritating heat that surrounded him. It was a pressure on him that he could not escape, that made its presence known as he stood in the quiet corridor, playing havoc with his nerves, breaking down his composure. He gritted his teeth uncharacteristically and walked back into his room, back to his papers and work. There was no need to check on Rukia: she would be adequately taken care of. She could come and tell him what had happened tomorrow.

An hour later, he sat frustrated at his table, crumpled balls of paper filling the bin beside him. He could not work like this. It was getting late, so he blew out the lamp, and moved towards his futon. As he passed by his dresser, his fingers brushed against something soft. The scarf lay there, and he picked it up.

Through the centuries, it had been dirtied and stained, bloodied in battle, sullied by scandal. But the scarf could always be cleaned again, returned to its snowy whiteness, unblemished, perfect. It would always be that way, a beautiful piece of ivory silk, to be prized and treasured.

Or would it?

Abarai Renji shuddered violently, Zabimaru breaking into pieces before him. Blood splattered against the walls and the ground. Even though his body was shredded and torn, he tried to stand before his rival, but his legs gave way, and he fell to the ground. Above him, his captain watched as he propped himself up on his arms, then slipped and fell heavily again. It was a while before Renji stopped moving.

The man was still alive though, his reiatsu faintly present, his eyes glaring at Byakuya, as if he wanted to stab him. He probably did, Byakuya mused. The captain stepped back. Then feeling a twinge of pain, he looked at himself.

Blood flowed sluggishly from a wound in his chest, caught in the fabric of his clothes. Byakuya's eyes widened, and then narrowed, staring at the fallen shinigami. Renji had injured him after all. He swallowed, and slowly reached up to his neck, unraveling the scarf. He exhaled, and watched as his scarf fluttered down onto the broken body of his vice-captain. His face bore no emotion, but deep inside, he was being torn into two. Part of him screamed at this loss of protocol, this disobedience to the clan. How dare he let a commoner touch the scarf of the Kuchiki family!

"Your fang... actually reached me." That was his only reason. It was a poor one, and it would hardly stand up to the horrified and angry retorts and accusations the Kuchiki elders were bound to throw at him. He didn't care. He was just amazed that Abarai Renji, that pathetic cur from the outskirts of the city, had managed to cut him... Surprised, and a little uneasy as well.

Perhaps he wasn't as invincible as he'd hoped. His father came to mind as he walked away from the bloody scene, and he shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memory.

The Sixth Division captain lay quietly on his bed in the Fourth Division, looking out the window as Unohana packed away her medical supplies. Birds chirped outside and hopped about on the ledge. Byakuya closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his face. It was quite a perfect summer's day, despite his distaste for the season. A light breeze entered the room, and the smell of cooking wafted in with it.

"Nii-sama?" He opened his eyes and turned to see Rukia standing by his bedside, a small bunch of wild flowers clenched in her hand. She looked uneasy.  
"Rukia..." Her eyes opened wide when she heard her name.  
"I wanted to say... thank you." Rukia fumbled, and held the flowers out to him. Byakuya looked blankly at them, then realised that he was expected to accept the dying blooms in her hands. As a Kuchiki, he shouldn't touch such dirty things, things that had been out in the fields, wild, free... Wincing, he sat up and took them from her, and kept her hand in his grasp. He paused in thought, wondering what exactly to say to his little sister.

"There's nothing you need to thank me for." The flowers were placed on the bedside table, and he held both her small hands in his own larger ones. He couldn't look at her, he thought in embarrassment. He had almost killed her, yet, yet... "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Rukia, I-" Byakuya stopped as Rukia sat beside him on the bed, a warm, gentle glow within her eyes as she looked at him. Her cheeks turned pink.

"Nii-sama, there's nothing to forgive." Byakuya struggled to be calm, but his emotions broke through, and he gathered Rukia into his arms. She gasped, but did not pull away. They stayed like that, hugging each other tightly until Hanatarou came in with the lunch, his shocked stammers alerting them to his presence.

Byakuya looked up as Renji came up to his desk, a slightly sheepish look on his face. In his hands was the scarf, neatly folded and cleaned of all stains.  
"Kuchiki-taichou." The scarf exchanged hands. Renji didn't look any more relieved though.

"Um... I want to say I'm sorry for figh..." He trailed off as Byakuya gestured for him to stop and sit down.  
"Abarai-san, I want to thank you for rescuing Rukia. It was foolish of me not to realise that you were doing the right thing. Please accept my apologies." Renji gaped, then looked away.  
"It's okay, Taichou. Just erm... about the fight..."  
"It doesn't matter." If it did, Byakuya thought, you wouldn't be sitting here. Apologising for something as trivial as that. He smirked.  
"After all, Abarai-san, you did say that you were going to defeat me... have you forgotten that promise so quickly?"  
He watched as his vice-captain stiffened, looking back at him. Then Renji gave him a shark-like grin.  
"I will. Just wait."  
"We'll see. I don't have that much time to wait around." The captain sniffed delicately and brushed an imaginary speck of lint off his robes, even as his vice-captain plotted against him. Secretly, he thought it might be rather fun to fight Renji again.

But he would never tell him that.

Byakuya tidied his desk, then nodded to Renji, who grinned and got back to his paperwork. He wasn't sure exactly how capable his vice-captain was, but he ought to be able to take care of the office for one afternoon.

As he walked down the corridor, his mind turned to the young girl waiting at home for him. Rukia had received a kite from Hanatarou as a get-well gift. Maybe he could teach her how to fly it, just as he once did with her sister; go out into the meadows and enjoy themselves, just as they should have... He passed the Tenth Division office as he usually did when returning to the Kuchiki residence, and Matsumoto Rangiku stepped out. She quirked an eyebrow.

"Going home early?"  
Byakuya nodded. As he walked away, Rangiku's voice called to him.  
"You look much better with your scarf on, Kuchiki-taichou." The captain turned, and a small smile met his lips.  
"Thank you, Matsumoto-san." He walked away, pretending not to notice Rangiku's look of utter disbelief. The smile on his face broadened, and his step quickened just a little. The afternoon sun shone upon his back, but he didn't notice it. Its scalding heat had somehow changed to a gentle warmth.

Kuchiki Byakuya was going home.

Comments and constructive criticism most welcome!


End file.
